


All Hearts Are Broken (ABANDONED)

by civilisationsofpurethought



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilisationsofpurethought/pseuds/civilisationsofpurethought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The things that you wanted to say, but didn’t.”</p><p>            The sentence is an average one, posed in the form of a question: not overly eloquent in word choice, but rather, composed of everyday vocabulary that a toddler could comprehend. Separately, these words have no dire connotations attached, and are, in fact, just words. </p><p>            But for John Hamish Watson, these words twist like a knife in his stomach. He looks down, breathing unstable, a tight lump in his throat. He is once again involuntarily catapulted through the events of the past few years, and he shuts his eyes, perhaps in an effort to not tear up; perhaps to convince himself, even for a fraction of a second, that the memories have a happy ending. But he knows that they don’t: this ending always is composed of blood, pavement, and pure, painful heartbreak. He takes in a shaky, unstable breath as it is replayed for the millionth time before his eyes: Sherlock, tossing his mobile aside, spreading his arms, and allowing himself to fall off of that goddamned roof, the epitome of grace until he lands in Death’s arms, skull crunching as the life drains out of him: that mad, brilliant, beloved man.</p><p>           “I can’t.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hearts Are Broken (ABANDONED)

 

* * *

 

            “The things that you wanted to say, but didn’t.”

            The sentence is an average one, posed in the form of a question: not overly eloquent in word choice, but rather, composed of everyday vocabulary that a toddler could comprehend. Separately, these words have no dire connotations attached, and are, in fact, just words. Meaningless, until strung together to form an idea, to give voice to a thought: a thought that could, potentially, influence ideas, topple regimes, change beliefs.

            For John Hamish Watson, these words twist like a knife in his stomach. He looks down, breathing unstable, a tight lump in his throat. He is once again involuntarily catapulted through the events of the past few years, and he shuts his eyes, perhaps in an effort to not tear up; perhaps to convince himself, even for a fraction of a second, that the memories have a happy ending. But he knows that they don’t: this ending always is composed of blood, pavement, and pure, painful heartbreak. He takes in a shaky, unstable breath as it is replayed for the millionth time before his eyes: Sherlock, tossing his mobile aside, spreading his arms, and allowing himself to fall off of that goddamned roof, the epitome of grace until he lands in Death’s arms, skull crunching as the life drains out of him: that mad, brilliant, beloved man.

           “I can’t.”

\-----

 

            John heads out of his therapist’s office, rain pelting his short frame. He bites his lower lip even as he tastes blood. His fists are clenched, and his eyes are threatening to betray him and release the pent-up tears. His every move screams for help; makes it clear to the passerby on the streets that he is drowning in this horrible grief, that he cannot do this. They duck their heads, pretending not to see him, as if he were a streetlight, and continue on with their day. He resists the urge to scream, and instead heads as quickly as possible into the nearest building.

            He dashes inside, not bothering to wipe the rain (and tears?) off of his face. He’s fifty feet into the building before he realizes that it’s a public library. He does his best to appear as if he isn’t on the verge of a complete break down, and heads blindly up a rickety spiral staircase. He is relieved to find that the floor he’d climbed to was, for all intents and purposes, empty of other people. He rushes to a corner where he is tucked away from sight by various tall, wooden bookshelves. He sinks to the floor, back to the wall, head in his hands, and finally allows the tears to fall, body shaken by silent, broken sobs, wondering if he’ll ever even begin to feel whole again.

            He remains like this for an unknown amount of time, and is only snapped out of his mourning when he hears someone clear their throat in his general direction. His head snaps up, and he is greeted by the sight of a young woman; short, blonde, curvaceous, dressed in business attire; the type of woman that John would, under normal circumstances, consider himself lucky to even be looked at by. She arches an eyebrow at him. “I take it you’re not sobbing like that over the Young Adult Romance Novels,” she says, glancing at the bookshelves surrounding John. She speaks in an Upper London accent, with Northern American enunciation of consonants, indicating perhaps a childhood spent in the States, or a semi-recent move to London. He looks up at her, and laughs, out of sheer emotional overkill.

           “Yeah. You’d be right,” he says, shaking his head and looking down at the wooden library floor. She cocks her head to the side, studying him for a long moment.

           “Come on. You look like you need a coffee. On me,” she says, holding out a hand to him. A peace offering, perhaps. He stares up at her, broken heart protesting. He doesn’t need a pretty young woman to complicate his already torn-to-shreds life, but she is looking at him- not with pity or concern- but with genuine curiosity. She is the first to do so. Others have tried to hide it, but he’s seen their looks; the sad, wide eyes, as if he is an abused child without a home; the smiles quirking down, as if they’re trying to emphasize with his pain; the abrupt silence whenever he walks into a crowded room, as if every occupant had been discussing his misfortune.

           John reaches up before he can overthink his actions, taking her hand and shakily standing. “Yeah,” he breathes, with a slight, terse nod. “That’d be nice.”

          She smiles, the left corner of her mouth quirking up in momentary satisfaction. “Good. I know just the place, my mysterious, crying stranger.”

          “It’s John. John Watson,” he replies softly, attempting to wipe the tear tracks off of his face. She isn’t fazed by his name at all- no comments on the news, no momentary pitying looks, no retracted invitations.

          “Good name. Strong name,” she says, with the slightest of nods, leading him through the winding bookshelves and back down the spiral stairway. “I’m Mary Morstan.”

 

\-----

 

            That evening, after speaking over coffee for three entire hours, Mary and John depart from the café, phone numbers of each other in hand and snow piling on their coats. They go their separate ways; John, to his flat, where he tosses and turns for the duration of the night, drifting in and out of a nightmare-laced sleep; Mary, hailing a cab to an abandoned shopping mall located in a questionable area of London. She picks the lock with startling efficiency, and heads to the heart of the dusty, unstable building.

            It is there that a lone figure waits, sitting at a table in what once must have been a food court. His breath fogs before him in the cold, and he barely glances up at Mary sits opposite him.

            “You found him, I take it.” The man says, studying her with cold eyes.

            “Of course. I’m not incompetent,” Mary responds in an American accent, with a pointed glance at him.

            “Hm. Arguable. How is he?”

            “Hellish. I found him having a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of a public library,” She says, folding her arms, electing to ignore the jab at her intelligence.

            “And then?”

            “I offered to take him out for a cup of coffee. He obliged, and we talked.”

            “About?”

            “Everything. Except, curiously enough, you.”

            Sherlock pauses at this, mulling it over with a terse nod. “What did you tell him about yourself?”

            “I said that I’m an aspiring author, working odd careers here and there to make ends meet. Simple enough to fake, and he appeared completely trusting.”

            “Hm. Good,” Sherlock says, with an approving nod. “Does he appear safe, from himself?”

            “I never said that.”

            A thick silence falls, and after a few moments, Sherlock sighs. “You are to continue with our arrangement, allowing him to dictate the direction your relationship heads in. Our agreed sum will be deposited monthly into your checking account. If you give my survival away, the consequences will be dire. You are no longer a criminal. This is your second chance in life; do not blow it.”

 

 

 


End file.
